There are two worlds merging. Two galaxies passing through each other. Never touching yet tugging from afar at the moment where they could meet. One is the galaxy of the seen. The other, the unseen. The first all girders and rigging, pendulums, levers, banks and bridges. The second force, will, love, return.

The space between the two may be infinite.

We believe in actors and actions. We assume cause and effect. We claim power for ourselves or our oppressors. Yet the question remains: do we exist at all?

Edges fade into centers as centers become new edges. We flail madly at the illusion of fixation. The tighter we hold to reality the less there is of it.

Is there a middle ground? Does a deviation from atmospheric pressure greater than the standard cause disappearance? Or must we travel infinitely far to see the nothing of which we are made?

Where is choice? From where does cause originate?

He was a towering hurricane. He entered my office in a glass cage. His strength was herculean. His will plate tectonic. His fingers were the size of baby's legs. His thumbs could drive nails through concrete. After fifty years he had learned how to not crush my hand when he shook it. I could tell it was still not easy for him.

The hammer driving him through the wall of life was the force that had conquered a continent. His ancestors were made of steel and they were the flames in which they had forged themselves.

His limp was epic. He only remained upright by bracing himself between his ancient past and the future of his nightmares.

The fog over his eyes only served to sharpen his vision. He could see through all but the most opaque of living beings. The years of childhood invalidity had offered him the opportunity to travel the inner landscape far and wide. There were few places he had not been. Few inner barriers he had not destroyed. His boulder like hands had been hewn as much by crashing through himself as by a lifetime spent raising steel girders.

Truly wise men are rare. It is in making an opponent of a man that we come to know him best. To love and respect him. Israel means, “To wrestle with God.” It is not through obedience to the great forces of nature that we merge with them but through opposing them. Through being ripped asunder by the hurricane we become it. It aches. It grinds. It brings us to our knees. It lays us low. Not on the ground but in it. Even as we beg for mercy we struggle wearily to our feet, living on strength that cannot be our own.

His son was on the quick road to death. There is nothing that tears a heart to pieces like the loss of a child, watching them slowly kill themselves. Did we hand down the verdict? Did we write the sentence? Did we swing the ax? We have to ask.

Abraham, the father of all our fathers would have done it for the god of his understanding, for the voices in his head, but for mercy at the moment of choice.

The anger of the man was so great that he tore down buildings with his bare hands. The son turned to drugs. He slept in gutters. He stole from family and strangers. The sadness of the father was so strong he nearly killed the son, the object of his lost love, his sadness. At the last moment, god spoke for mercy.

The father followed the son. Through ages of tears he reached into the emptiness, tethered only by the love of his wife, and grabbed the son he'd wanted to kill.

As often as Odin tries to exile Thor, as often as Thor rages against Odin, the seed is the tree and the tree is the seed.

The man left all he'd built for himself. He followed the boy until he caught him. As he moved from middle age towards his later years he cradled the son in ways he could not have before the mercy. They began again. Life is always coming to an end and beginning again.

The wave is nothing, a thought,A white glimmer at the end of the worldA glimmer that moves, rolls towards meStill nothing, yet growing,Wanting to existPushed from below, pulled from above

It leaves it's old waters behind,Gathering new ones as it growsStill nothingThe sun and moon glance off my waveNow green, now blue

Iridescent whiteThe hawk soars aboveThe fish swim below a wave that has not been bornWill not be born, yet always existsA little swell begins and fades and begins againIt too rolls, mimics my waveIt does not know it existsIt does no know the waveYet it yearns, it cravesNow bigger, it drives forwardLeaving it's old waters to enter the newIt rolls and falls and rolls againThe sunshineThe sunsetThe dark of night and the glitter of the starsStill my wave does not existThe swell is white, the spray reaches high into the airA lip, a curl, a fold, a crashA dolphin singsA whale mother calls her childThe wave has come and goneTomorrow it will come againYet it has never been, nor will be

At the age of twelve I realized that the way of modern civilization is to crush the human soul. Out of fear of our darkest places we seek to control ourselves, to regiment ourselves so that our spirits may not find the fullest expression of this darkness. Yet we end up also crushing the light. Much of our lives are spent serving this system that seeks to destroy the life of the spirit. I have slowly killed myself in my attempt to not stand apart from this way. In my desire to be in the middle, to do what I saw around me, to live as I saw others live, I slowly tore out my own heart until it is nearly gone. I have been committing suicide for almost thirty years. All the while knowing it. Even trying to tell myself.

I did not listen. I shoved the voice down. I stuffed it in a garbage can, covered it with dirt, stuck it in the far corner of the basement. Built the walls. Barred the doors. Until I broke. My heart broke. My nerves could not take the deceit any longer. They failed me. Yet they did not really fail me. They failed the tyrant I had become. They rebelled against the unjust government, the autocratic dictator of my intellect, my fear. They opened the cell doors. They broke down the prison walls. All the dams of my heart, all the courthouses of my mind, they cracked. The cracks spread until the walls collapsed.

Now I find myself in an open field. I do not know where to go or who to be. Platitudes do not guide me so please do not offer them. I am seeking a new way. I do not have a map. My only compass my heart. The hearts of my brothers and sisters, my friends and lovers. The smiles and tears of children. The song of birds. The chorus of the wind.

I do not know what to say to the barons and kings. My revolution is not against the outside world. It is against my own deceits. I now follow the great beating heart of humanity. My heart. Our heart. It may lead me to my grave. It most certainly will. I shall follow. But I can no longer serve the actuarial tables. I can no longer judge by the numbers. I can no longer fly in fear of myself. Of you. Of us.

I know that I am not alone. Each day I meet more and more outcasts. More and more of us who cannot live within the confines of conscription, the prisons we have built for each other. Are we lost? Are we explorers of the deep heart and the far reaches of the spirit? Are we walking into the unknown? I have no answers. I have no knowledge. Nothing to grasp but faith. Nothing to give but open space. Endless potential bounded by night and day. Are we a gathering of hermits? A new village? A lunatic untethered or a truer truth revealed?

Join me. Support me. Hold me. Dance with me. Not for money. Not for love. Not for fame or power. Not for anything. We are because we are. Aimlessly we come and go. Now here. Now gone. Now back again. Do not meet me out in the field. We are already here. Open your eyes and see me. I will see you. Free. Bound. Being. Dancing.

Let me go and I'll return. I release you from the bondage of my expectation. I surrender my judgment of you. You are free to leave the prison I have built for you. Find your god. Your devil. Your inner child. Your lunatic. Find your heaven and your hell. I'll go with you. You go alone.

Who will buy my story?My old toothbrush?My Grandfather's broken watch?I cry out for a customer,A loaf of bread,A night out of the cold.In the maelstrom I am a dropletAsking a favor of the gods.

The sun makes his way across the sky.The dust rises under the feet of millionsUntil it is difficult to breath.Words are lost in this place.Colors float away before they are seen.Samson makes love to Delilahsomewhere in this desert and wraps her nameinto his own satchel as he buries his facein her cavernous, cool hair.